


You Run Your Mouth and I'll Run My Business

by moon_crater



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/F, Flirting, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 11:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10096361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_crater/pseuds/moon_crater
Summary: Courier Six has the kind of smile that makes a girl do all sorts of things she knows she oughtn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For [the kmeme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/588.html?thread=307020#t307020) (and [mirrored on the new kmeme](http://newfalloutkink.livejournal.com/1149.html?thread=329853#t329853).) The original prompt:
> 
> _Using the Cherchez La Femme perk, the female courier uses this line to hit on the female Omerta receptionist at Gomorrah: "Beautiful. I can help you loosen those lips. "_
> 
> _Take it where you will. As long as it's consensual, it can be as rough and animalistic as the writer wants it to be or it can totally be vanilla and fluffy. Something needs to happen with those two though. :P_
> 
> Meant to get this done in time for femslash February. Alas! It was not to be. 
> 
> Heads up: This takes place in a public space, which means someone comes upon our heroines while they’re getting busy. However, the interloper remains blissfully unaware of what’s happening. Still: if the idea of a person unknowingly being present during someone else's sexual activity squicks you, stay safe and hit the back button with my blessing.

_We'll get caught_. It's all she can think, stuck in a loop as she scratches nonsense on a centuries old _Gomorrah_ notepad to look busy. Receptionists are supposed to be busy. Receptionists are supposed to do their jobs. Receptionists are not supposed to have trysts in broad daylight in the middle of the workday. _We'll get caught. We'll get caught. We'll get caught._  
  
But the thug guarding the entrance to the casino gets distracted by a cluster of tourists and all their weapons, and suddenly a package courier with a dimpled smile and big green eyes has tucked herself under the courtesy desk where no one can see her. Six, she'd called herself, with a grin that dazzled the way only a vault dweller's could: all white, with straight, even teeth.  
  
Six, with a sparkle in her eyes that smoothed away the awkwardness as she murmured in reply— _Della, I’m Della_ —and coyly blushed. Six, with a smile that made her heart skip and made her nod her consent to this very bad idea. (Very bad, very _enticing_ idea, she reminds herself with a flush of secret pleasure.)  
  
_We’ll get caught_.  
  
Her heart hammers.  
  
_We’ll get caught_.  
  
Her palms sweat.  
  
_We’ll get caught_.  
  
It’s been so long since she’s done anything like this. Too long.  
  
_We’ll get caught._  
  
Beneath the counter, hands slide under the hem of her dress, over her knees, up along her thighs. Short nails slip along old, smooth scars, fingertips tracing patterns to make her hair stand on end. Her pencil skids unevenly on the paper when nimble fingers hook into the sides of her underwear. Jesus, she hopes she wore a good pair today, she can't remember.  
  
Before she strips the panties, Six presses her hot, open mouth to the fabric. A warm-up for what’s to come. Fevered breath tickles, a nose nudges, cloth rolls against her skin.  
  
_We’ll get caught,_ Della bites her lip when thumbs run over the jagged angles of her hip bones, when fingertips paint gentle strokes down the sides of her hips, and decides _but maybe I don’t care._  
  
Sudden sunlight streams in through the lobby door, outlining a figure in a tailored suit, as her panties ease down her thighs. She can't make out the details in the halo of light, but takes a deep breath and shakily smiles in welcome. It better look convincing, but it's hard to gauge while her knees are turning to water.  
  
The door closes and she gets a good look at the woman standing there, a ghoul with half a nose, a few patches of hair and a heavy pack. But the details of the customer go hazy when she feels the tiny slip of fabric pool around her ankles. She stops scratching on her pad, ready to greet the customer, and carefully shifts from one foot to the other to untangle the garment.  
  
“Welcome to Gomorrah,” Della breathes, as fingers trail up the backs of her legs, dipping into the bend behind her knees and sliding higher. She leans closer to the counter, pressing up against it, so that nothing going on beneath is visible from the other side. “Can I—“ she hardly jumps at all when lips press a gentle kiss to her skin at the juncture of her thighs. “—help you?”  
  
Maybe she’s imagining it, but it feels like the courier is smiling against her. Fingers spear between her folds and scissor apart, spreading her open. Hot breath ghosts over her clit, teasing with the promise of more. She braces her hands on the counter, and they’re the only thing keeping her upright with her legs turning weak from anticipation.  
  
“Just blew in from Reno,” the ghoul rasps, dropping her pack on the counter. It’s hard to focus on the customer’s face, so she drops her eyes to the notepad to steady herself. “Got any rooms?”

“Mmm-mmm,” she murmurs, with a shake of her head. It’s all she can get out. The courier’s tongue flattens against her, sweeping up, up, turning lazy circles, sketching curlicues on her skin that make her thoughts fragment and scatter. The muscles of her thighs flutter weakly, like the beating of a dying cazador’s wings, and lock up. “Booked—solid.”  
  
“Well, shee-oot.” The ghoul huffs out a breath, the kind that would blow her hair out of her eyes if she had enough for it. Adjusts her hat. “Last hotel on the strip and it’s full up? Guess I’m sleepin’ on the sidewalk tonight. ‘less you know a place?”  
  
“Sorry. Try—” Six adds a finger to the mix, tracing the opening of her cunt with the pad twice before dipping it inside. Over the sound of her pounding heart, she manages to finish the sentence, “—try the Atomic Wrangler.”  
  
“Where’s that?”  
  
Wetness gathers between her thighs, helped along by the courier’s busy, busy fingers, and agile, agile tongue. Fuck. “Freeside.”  
  
“I can get a room there?”  
  
It’s got to be her imagination that this is the chattiest customer she’s ever had. Six’s fingers have started to pump inside her, gliding slow and even, while her tongue runs a steady circuit around her clit that never quite touches.  
  
“By the hour.” It takes some doing to keep her voice steady. Her breathing is erratic. Quick. Shallow.  
  
“Oh, one of those.” The ghoul shrugs. “All right. Thanks.” She turns for the door. Thank god. Then she turns back. “Which way to Freeside?”  
  
Fuck!  
  
“Go out the door, go that way—” She points her finger, and honestly has no idea which way she’s pointing, but the ghoul should be able to figure it out. There’s only one street. “It’s a straight shot to the gate. Once you’re there, the Kings can point you in the right direction.”  
  
“Kings?”  
  
“Matching outfits, stupid hair.” The courier’s tongue finally meets her clit and Della thumps her knuckles hard on the counter like it’s for emphasis. Really, it’s to keep from making an obscene noise. “Can’t miss ‘em.”  
  
The ghoul gives her a friendly tip of the hat and turns to go. “Thank you kindly.”  
  
She clamps her lips shut. Bites the upper one, not quite hard enough to draw blood. Watches the ghoul wander out the door.  
  
As soon as the door clicks shut, Della shoots a look at the greeter. He’s still preoccupied with those tourists, thank god, but he’s coming to the last of them. She’s got to move fast.  
  
She staggers back from the counter, uncovering Six in her hiding place. She crouches there, breathless and grinning, mouth damp, fingers slick. Della grabs her by the sleeves and drags her up.  
  
“You are a wicked, _wicked_ woman.” Heart still pounding, body still buzzing with arousal, Della almost giggles in spite of herself.  
  
The courier wiggles her brows and sticks the tip of her tongue out between her teeth in a flirtatious tease. “Want to punish me for it?”  
  
With a stern look, she reaches over and grabs a room key. Her own. Della presses it into the courier’s hand. “I get off at eight.”  
  
Six jingles the key and gives her a wink. “I certainly hope so.”


End file.
